


Unspoken

by Sholio



Category: White Collar
Genre: Cancer, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 14:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter has cancer; Neal deals. Written for a prompt at whitecollarhc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Без слов](https://archiveofourown.org/works/355925) by [aqwt101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqwt101/pseuds/aqwt101)



> This story was written for [this prompt](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/22166.html?thread=178070) by Surreal_44, although I had some trouble sticking to the original prompt and ended up changing it a bit.

Normally words came easily to Neal. Words were his livelihood, his stock in trade. Words were what he was good at.

But ever since Peter had announced to the White Collar unit that he'd be taking two weeks off work for surgery, Neal's words had deserted him.

Oh, there were still words, all right. He still had all his usual capacity for small talk, for talking about cases around the conference table, for schmoozing with suspects. The usual stuff, in other words. Business as usual, stiff upper lip, carry on and all of that.

But he felt as if there ought to be more. The feeling haunted him that there was something he ought to be saying or doing -- that he was missing an opportunity to ... well, to do or say something. Offer condolences? Give wishes for a speedy recovery? Ask for last-minute instructions in case things went wrong?

Peter being Peter, Neal suspected that no form of sympathy would be welcome, no matter how cleverly phrased. And he doubted if Peter wanted or needed advice, even if Neal had any to offer. No, nothing had changed: Peter went on like usual, and Neal was happy enough to take his cues from Peter, rather than inflicting unwanted sympathy that would probably do nothing but embarrass them both.

And yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was still taking the easy way out.

Peter had been very vague in his announcement of his upcoming time off. As far as Neal was aware, only he, Diana, and Jones knew that Peter had cancer. Well, Hughes probably knew also -- that was unavoidable -- but Peter had told the other three in the van, shortly before making the announcement that he'd be taking some medical leave.

"It's not _that_ bad," Peter had said, in the pin-drop silence as the three of them stared at him. "Seriously, guys, stop looking at me like that. They caught it on a routine screening. I'm going to have surgery, a round of radiation and possibly chemo depending on what they find, and that's it."

Peter's matter-of-fact attitude made it easy enough to avoid the topic in the remaining few days before Peter went on leave. And Neal didn't notice Diana and Jones treating Peter any differently. Perhaps he couldn't find any words for this situation because there weren't any, and maybe what Peter was doing was the only thing he _could_ do -- being Agent Peter Burke, being in charge, taking on cancer exactly as he'd taken on bank robbers, mobsters and forgers. Just keep going. Show no weakness to the enemy.

It seemed to be working for him, and Neal didn't want to undermine an effective coping strategy with unwanted demonstrations of concern.

 

*

 

Peter left early on the day before the surgery -- probably on purpose, Neal realized later, the bastard, because it made it impossible for any well-meaning co-worker to say a proper goodbye. Peter left his office around three, tapped the edge of Neal's desk, and said, "Hey, heading out early. See you later."

"Okay, later," Neal said on autopilot, and then seconds later, as Peter headed out the door, Neal's brain caught up with the fact that _See you_ didn't mean _See you tomorrow_ but _See you in two weeks._ He almost got up and followed, just to say _Good luck_ , but then Peter stepped into the elevator and Neal had the choice between staying at his desk or making an undignified dash after his partner. He opted for "desk".

"Sneaky bastard," Diana said, echoing Neal's thoughts.

"The sneakiest," Neal said.

"I thought that was you."

Neal smiled.

"Well, just because he left early doesn't mean you can," Diana said. She and Jones were Neal's interim handlers during Peter's leave of absence.

The rest of the afternoon passed in quiet routine. On the dot of five, Neal plunked a pile of file folders on the edge of her desk. "Ma'am, permission to go home, ma'am."

Diana laid her pen down neatly and frowned up at him. "I hope this is an accurate preview of what working with you for the next two weeks is going to be like."

"Best behavior," Neal said earnestly. "Absolutely."

"Uh-huh. You'd better mean it." Diana yawned, stretched and pushed her chair back. "I think I'm going to knock off too. Want a ride?"

"I'll walk," Neal said. "Clears the head."

"Mmm," Diana said. He was aware of her watching him leave.

He walked home, picking up takeout along the way for a quiet, private dinner at June's. He got extra for Mozzie, just in case, but this turned out to be one of the nights that Mozzie, presumably, had business of his own in other parts of the city. Sitting on the couch with chopsticks in hand, looking out at the sun setting off June's balcony, Neal thought about calling Moz and seeing what he was up to. That felt a little pathetic, though. And it would mean dealing with Mozzie's armchair-psychiatrist routine, which, just, no.

Mostly he needed a distraction. He didn't want to call the Burkes. He figured that Peter and El probably had plans for their last night before Peter's surgery, and he didn't want to intrude. He wandered downstairs, visited with June a bit, then wandered back up to his apartment.

The evening stretched long in front of him.

The problem, Neal thought as he poured himself a glass of wine and then contemplated it, was that he'd used his words too often. Used them and misused them, until they were stripped of feeling. Maybe someone else could have found the right words to say, but he'd put them through their paces until, when he really needed them, there was nothing left -- nothing he could say to Peter that he hadn't said in a con before, nothing that felt sincere and real.

He put it forcibly from his mind and pulled out a partly-completed canvas: fiddly, full of detail, exactly the sort of thing he needed right now.

Around midnight, he went to refill his glass, not for the first time, and realized that the bottle was almost empty and that he had to work in the morning. He made a pot of coffee instead. Coming in to work hung over on his first morning with Diana and Jones probably wouldn't make a good impression.

By 3 a.m., it was becoming evident to him that he wasn't going to sleep. He'd tried reading, then resorted to watching "Tiles of Fire III", which someone (Moz or June) had left laying around. Even that didn't do it, which meant his insomnia was beyond all hope.

Two weeks without Peter. He'd done that before. He had a certain understanding with Diana and Jones when Peter was on vacation: namely, he didn't make trouble for them, and Diana didn't kick his ass. It was a pretty good deal, all things considered.

Two weeks. And then Peter would be back. The alternative was really not worth contemplating.

 _But you've been contemplating it all night, Caffrey, haven't you?_

It was stupid to worry; Peter and El didn't seem to be worried, as far as Neal could tell. Well, they probably wouldn't be human if they weren't at least a little bit worried, but they both seemed to be handling it fine. Better, in fact, than Neal felt he was handling it at the moment.

 _Cancer. Surgery. Chemo._

He grabbed his jacket and went for a walk.

The city had quieted down for the night. It wasn't completely asleep -- New York never really slept -- but the usual bustle had settled into a peaceful twilight state.

This was his world once, this still time between darkness and dawn. The honest people of the city were sleeping, except for a few night-shift workers. And, truth be told, of late he'd be sleeping, too. He really should be sleeping right now.

Instead, he walked through the streets of the city, drifting. Thinking. Mostly he found himself reliving a "greatest hits" version of the past few years. There had been ups and downs, good times and bad ones, but Peter was always there, the sun at the center of his orbit. Even when Neal didn't want him to be. _Especially_ when Neal didn't want him to be.

The thought crossed his mind that he couldn't imagine the White Collar unit without Peter. Oh, for a little while, sure. But Peter was always there in the background, even when he wasn't physically present. Peter _had_ to be there. Life without Peter just wasn't ...

 _It wouldn't be the same._

Working under another handler would be different, and probably a lot less fun. But it wasn't just that. Hunching his shoulders against the night's chill, Neal thought, _Be honest with yourself for once, Caffrey. It's not your handler that you'd miss. You'd miss your friend. You miss him already._

By the time he got back to his apartment, the sun had begun to rise, and he'd made a decision, or possibly broken his resolve to avoid a decision he'd already made. It was five-thirty. He called Diana.

"All I have to say, Caffrey, is that you're damn lucky I was already awake." After a moment Diana added, "Since you'll be seeing me in a couple hours anyway, I suppose there's a reason you're calling?"

"Yeah, I was wondering ..." He trailed off. She waited. "Peter's surgery is this morning. I think El said they were going to be at the hospital at six. It's out of my radius."

Diana sighed. "There's a thing called a telephone, Caffrey. You're using one right now."

"I know, I know. It's just ..." Words, failing him. Again. "It doesn't feel right. And I could take a cab over to the Burkes', but by the time I got there, they'd probably have left for the hospital already."

"Look," Diana said. "I just got out of the shower; give me a few minutes to dry my hair and I'll drive over, okay? We can swing by the hospital, see if we can catch the Burkes, and then get breakfast. Which you're buying, by the way," she added quickly, as if worried that her reputation as a hardass was taking a hit.

 

*

 

Visiting hours at the hospital hadn't started yet, but the hospital staff were nothing but helpful when Diana explained that they would like to visit a friend before surgery, and they were directed up a few levels and down a corridor to one of the patient rooms.

The door was open; Peter, wearing a hospital gown and looking intensely bored, was perched on the edge of the bed, with Elizabeth sitting next to him, her fingers laced through his. They both looked up in surprise when Diana tapped on the door.

"Diana," El said. "Neal! I didn't expect to see you two." Her eyes lingered thoughtfully on Neal.

"Don't tell me Neal's violated the terms of his probation already," Peter said. El aimed a gentle kick with one stockinged foot at his bare ankle.

"We were on our way to work," Diana said. "Thought we'd stop by."

Neither Peter nor El pointed out that it was much too early and the hospital was, in any event, nowhere near Federal Plaza. "C'mon in, you two," El said. "We have ... one very uncomfortable chair." She toed it in their direction.

"And absolutely terrible hospital coffee," Peter said. "Or so I'm told. _I'm_ not allowed to have anything before surgery."

"Can't be worse than FBI coffee," Diana said. "I wouldn't mind some."

"They told us they're running a little behind, so we'll probably have a bit of waiting before they come around to get him for the surgery." El squeezed Peter's hand and hopped down off the bed. "Diana, let me show you where the coffee machine is."

"Hey --" Neal began, but the women were already out the door, El patting Neal's arm when she passed him. She gave Peter a wink over her shoulder.

Peter looked at Neal, shrugged and sighed, then patted the end of the bed. "You're making me uncomfortable. C'mere. Sit. El's right, the chair is really uncomfortable. We've been plotting to smuggle in one of the chairs from the house."

Neal compromised by perching on the very end of the bed. "Are they keeping you long enough to make it worth it?"

"Just a day or two, so probably not. On the other hand, don't be surprised if El contacts you regarding routes for sneaking items into and out of hospitals."

Neal twirled his hat between his hands, and grinned. "Why, Peter, what makes you think I'd know anything about that?"

"Call it a hunch." The corner of Peter's mouth tugged up in a half-smile. "And you're not going to give Diana and Jones any headaches, right?"

"I'll be on my best behavior," Neal promised.

"Unfortunately, that's what I'm afraid of."

Neal mock-scowled. "Hey, if that's how you're going to be, don't expect me to sneak any takeout in here."

"I already have El for that," Peter pointed out.

"As well as chair-smuggling? I think you should keep an eye on her, Peter."

"I married a resourceful lady," Peter said.

"I don't suppose it's completely out of the question to drop by while you're convalescing ...?" Neal asked, dangling a casual sort of question mark at the end.

"I'm amazed you're bothering to ask. Normally you just drop in whenever you feel like it."

"Just for that," Neal said, "I was _going_ to be tactful and refrain from asking about hair loss, but I really have to know. Are you going to end up bald?"

Peter winced. "Hopefully not."

"I have plenty of hats." Neal held up his fedora on his fingertips. "You're welcome to borrow one."

"Yeah, I don't think that would actually be an improvement."

Out in the corridor, El's laugh sounded, as bright as sunshine. In their narrow remaining window of privacy, Neal looked quickly in Peter's direction. "Hey -- Peter --"

"I know," Peter said.

"I haven't said anything."

"Right, so let's make it easy on both of us and assume that you did."

Neal laughed, and then, before he knew what was happening to him, Peter threw an arm around his neck and tugged him into a fast, one-sided hug. Neal gripped Peter's hand for a moment before Peter let him go.

"Coffee call," El said, slipping into the room with a styrofoam cup in either hand. She placed one cup into Neal's hands before resuming her seat on the bed, resting against Peter's side.

Diana followed her into the room, and gave Peter a brief smile, which he returned. "Well," Diana said, "now that I've got caffeine ..." She flourished a deck of cards from her pocket. "Poker, anyone?"

 

*

 

They ended up playing gin, because Peter claimed he didn't trust Neal near a game of poker. Elizabeth kept winning. It was after seven when a nurse came in and apologetically shooed them out so that Peter could be taken down to the surgical floor.

"Breakfast is on Caffrey this morning," Diana said, "so we'd better get to that before he finds some way to weasel out of it."

"I do not _weasel_ ," Neal said loftily. "I _connive._ And occasionally conspire. But never weasel."

"You're welcome to come," Diana added to Elizabeth. "Caffrey can treat two of us just the same as one."

El shook her head. "Thank you, though -- and thanks for coming by. It means a lot to both of us."

"Well." Diana gave Peter and El both swift, businesslike hugs. "Anything I can do, don't hesitate to ask. I have a contact in the medical profession, you know."

"Hey, Peter." Neal dropped the fedora onto Peter's head before scooting hastily out of reach. "In case it's needed," he pointed out from a safe distance.

"Cocky little punk," Peter muttered, but he was obviously trying hard not to smile as he took off the hat and placed it carefully on the tray table by the bed. "The answer to your question is yes, by the way. Drop in anytime. But I think you already knew that."

Neal caught himself smiling as he turned away. Yeah, he'd known. Words might be trite, cliche, overused -- but he and Peter never had really needed words anyway. It wasn't what was said, but what was done: a birthday card sent from prison; a hand on his shoulder, shoving him out of danger. A hug, when neither one of them were really hugging types.

"You think he'll be okay?" Diana asked in the elevator, her hands tucked in her pockets.

"He's Peter Burke," Neal said. "Of course he will."

~


End file.
